Dreams
by trek-grrrl
Summary: Roger told him the dreams were to be reveled in. One-shot. Rating is T but some might find it offensive. It's het, not slash, don't panic.


He looked up from the mission report he'd brought home to go over, gazing at the rain coming down on this hot muggy evening. The sound of it pounding on the tin roof put him into a reverie; he relaxed back into his favorite chair, and thought about the dreams...

The dreams began three years ago, a year after he'd found her bottle on that remote sandy island.

They happened about three times a week, sometimes more, sometimes less. Vivid, brilliant dreams, so real to him that he felt the aura of what transpired in the morning when he'd awaken, the electricity in the air.

He never knew, night to night, when he'd have these dreams of her, could never discern a pattern of when they would come to him. He knew, intellectually, that dreams were merely a function of the brain, a re-hashing of conscious and subconscious experience during the waking time.

The intensity of the dreams frightened him at first, and he would be overwhelmed with guilt for what he would do in these dreams.

No, no, I can't! he would thrash about in his bed, calling out. No...NO! I don't love you, I can't!

He knew, even as he said it, that it was a lie. The brain doesn't let you lie in your own dreams, everything is bared, raw and naked to your soul.

Shhhh, was the inevitable response.

After the first few visits, the torment, the guilt drove him to voice what was happening, before he went insane. Roger.

And his best friend told him it was okay. It was a dream. Enjoy it. Revel in it.

Roger said I could.

The guilt went away, to be replaced by joy, by rapture, by ecstasy.

She would come to him, in a diaphanous sleeveless dress, her usual pink and purple tones, but this outfit was different. He could see every curve of her, every sweet whisper of skin and navel, her breasts unhampered by the top she wore in real life. Her hair, loose, tumbled down her back, giving the illusion of an angelic glow

But what transpired in these dreams was anything but angelic.

She would gently lie on top of him, weightless on his strong tall frame, a nymph, a faery, his genie. She would place her sweet lips on his own, and so the night of passion would begin.

In the euphoria, his hands would find her, doing their own magic as his lips explored her own, running down to the sweet gentle curve of her neck to her shoulders, down to her magnificent breasts and up again.

His hands couldn't stop, sliding along the small of her back to her full hips, down her strong thighs, exploring, touching, probing her.

And she did her own exploring with lips and hands, and it never took long to get that gossamer gown off of her. She would remain on him, looking down into his electric blue eyes, climbing slowly and gently onto him.

Ah, he'd sigh in his dream, the feel of her on him, the feel of him in her...he would grab her hips, and move powerfully against her, two waves on an ocean, the tension building until the inevitable explosive release.

He didn't dwell on these dreams in real life. They were a fantasy, a plaything for his brain while his body rested.

A rapid knock on the door startled him from his memories. Roger.

"Hey, Tone," he said, walking in. He wasn't his usual bouncy self. It was late.

Tony looked at his watch. 2347!

"What're you doing here, Roj? It's pushing midnight!"

Roger Healey staggered into the living room and collapsed on the couch. "I KNOW! I've been up almost forty hours straight, working on that new simulation program, testing it, getting the kinks out. I'm EXHAUSTED!"

"So you came here to crash on my couch?"

Roger yawned and shook his head, trying to talk. "No.. no.. you need to go... Peterson said NOW! Something came up, and bring that mission report with you, got something to do with that!"

Roger's head hit the hard arm of the couch and he was out.

Tony quickly donned his uniform, threw the mission report into his briefcase and went for the door, looking back at Roger's awkward position. He's going to be sore as hell when he wakes up, if he stays that way! he thought.

He went back to his best friend. "Roj! ROJ! Get up!"

Healey slowly sat upright, already stiff from the position he'd lain.

"Roj, look, I'm going to be several hours, you're beat. Go crash in my room. By the time I get back, you'll have had a good night's sleep."

Roger stood, started staggering to Tony's room. Tony reached for the cup Jeannie had set out for him earlier. It was still warm.

"Here, Roj, drink this. An old family recipe of Jeannie's. She gives it to me a few times a week to help me sleep."

Roger was so tired he couldn't think, he simply followed Tony's order to drink, felt his friend guide him to the bed.

The odd spicy and cinnamon warmth of the tea was already hitting his brain, his muscles, as his head hit Tony's pillow.

Seemingly an instant later, Tony was jostling Roger awake, the bright morning sun streaming through the window. Roger was surprisingly alert for having been so exhausted the night before.

"Roj! You up? Time to get back to work!"

Roger sat up on the edge of the bed, looking at the gossamer curtains, the glow of the sun shining through.

He stood and stretched, yawning.

"Wow, Tony, I had the most AMAZING dream last night!"


End file.
